Title: A Portrait of a Man and a Woman in Love
Author: Culumacilinte
Rating: PG
Pairing: Past Davy Jones/Tia Dalma
Length: 965
Warnings: One completely made up item- without which this fic would have no point at all. Shame on me; I'm apparently incapable of working with what the movie has already given me; I must add more.
Summary: There is a small painting which Davy Jones has which is his most treasured possession. He keeps it hidden; even from himself, for he has not looked at it for decades. When his heart is stolen from him, however, he finds that he has no option.
There was only one thing in the world which Davy Jones valued above his treasured music box, something only he and one other person knew it existed at all. Hidden away, it was, in a secret compartment in the begrimed walls of his cabin; an ornate golden pocket watch. It had long since ceased to work; its mechanisms rusted, the glass broken and the hands bent, but Davy Jones cared nothing for these. It was something else entirely which made the watch special. On one side, there was a small hinge, so that the watch face could be lifted up, and underneath could be seen an ivory plaque, cut so thin it was nearly transparent, on which was rendered in minute strokes an exquisite oil painting.
It was a man and a woman, smiling out of the painting. The man was young and fair, with thin lips and a neatly trimmed goatee, and pale blue eyes like the sea before a storm, whose reddish-brown hair was tied smoothly back with a black velvet ribbon. One strong hand rested on the bared shoulder of the woman next to him; her face too was soft and youthful, but exotic. She had skin the colour of coffee with cream, dark eyes painted with kohl and sparkling with mischief, and a fond, teasing smile towards the man at her side. Her long, braided hair hung loose about her shoulders, and the man's other hand could be seen twining in it. They were beautiful, both the man and the woman; happy, and obviously in love.
Davy hadn't looked at that picture in forty years.
The pain of her music was a pain he could bear; a pain he almost needed. With that music he made his very ship shudder; his crew had become used to it over the years, but the new ones still quaked at the organ music which seemed to haunt the vessel every night. To sit at the monstrous pipe organ, his tentacles writhing and pressing and moving to create that dark, distorted version of her song- it was a release for him. No release could ever be gained by rekindling the pain that he had felt when he had torn his heart out of his chest. There would be no blood now, no sickening snap of ribs nor any crippling physical pain, but he would feel it nonetheless, he knew.
But when he had that chest, his chest, on board his ship, and opened it to find it empty of all save the old and crumpled letters from her which he could not bear to throw away, he had to. It was her fault, all of it, and even if he couldn't make her feel the anguish that he did... well, he had to look at her, see that face that had haunted his dreams. She was a voodoo witch, they said; well maybe that picture had some of the same power over her that it did over him. Just maybe.
His crew scattered as he stumped back to his cabin, tears unshed for decades now forming in his eyes. Furious, he tore away the covering which hung over the wall and wrenched open the compartment. It took him a moment to open the watch with his clumsy crab-claw hand, but he finally did, and at that moment, all the furious movement about him stilled and he stumbled away from the wall.
There it was; she as perfect as she had ever been, smiling enigmatically at a Davy Jones that he hardly recognised. He stood in the middle of the floor, just staring at the small timepiece; his body was motionless, but his face was contorted into a grimace of pain, and the tentacles of his beard writhed and twisted in agony. How long he stood there he didn't know; outside his crew muttered and the waves raged; the waters answering to the anguish of he who many called the King of the Sea, but he was aware of none of it.
Eventually however, he stilled; his tentacles now hanging limp against his hollow chest, but even as they ceased to move, there was another swift motion as, almost reflexively, the great claw which served him as a right hand compulsively snapped shut. There was a splintering noise and a flash of gold in the darkness as the watch tumbled to the floor. For a moment, Davy gazed in horror, and then turned away, storming out of the cabin as a dry, wrenching sob escaped him.
On deck, Davy Jones threw aside the first mate, who had been manning the wheel, and instructed the Bo'sun to lash him for insubordination. No-one asked any questions; they never did when the captain was in a temper. Furiously, he took the wheel in both hands, the claw cutting into the rotted, waterlogged wood, and swung the ship about in wild, aimless pursuit of the man who had robbed him of his heart. Heedless, waves broke over the helm of the ship, drenching the captain; he relished the saltwater soaking over inch of him; it made his tears all but invisible.
Inside the cabin, broken pieces of ivory lay neglected in the middle of the floor. Some way away there sat a twisted a broken pocket watch, the gold it was wrought of now dimmed, collecting the bilge which washed though the planks of the floor. One painted blue eye stared with love up at the unsympathetic ceiling, just as it had ever done, not caring that the woman the look of love was directed at was now lying several feet away. Her smile, however, seemed to be tinged now with regret, not its former fond mischief. Soon enough, though, the ship submerged, and the ivory and watch had been swept away, out the door and into the vastness of the sea.
Davy Jones had been right, in a way.
But he would never know.